


Spoor

by Igirisuhito



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Dangan Ronpa 3: The End of 希望ヶ峰学園 | The End of Kibougamine Gakuen | End of Hope's Peak High School, Dangan Ronpa Zero
Genre: Blood As Lube, Blood Drinking, Blood Loss, Gags, Hair-pulling, Intersex Character, Kidnapping, M/M, Matsuda Pussy, Orgasm Denial, Overstimulation, Restraints, Shakespeare Quotations, Torture, Yeah im GAY gay, wound fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-17 08:15:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29714280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Igirisuhito/pseuds/Igirisuhito
Summary: Matsuda narrowly escapes death after Junko recovers her memories. Her plan to destroy Hope's Peak is back in full swing, but Kamukura is curious about what came of Matsuda's brush with death. He pays him a visit, and decides to play a little...
Relationships: Kamukura Izuru/Matsuda Yasuke
Comments: 7
Kudos: 13





	Spoor

**Author's Note:**

> Hi it's been a minute. A friend of mine who does not wish to be credited helped me with this fic <3 hope you all enjoy.  
> This fic isn't a sequel to Pinched Nerve but it is a part of the MPCU (Matsuda Pussy Cinematic Universe).  
> .  
> *Please don't read this fic if you're not down to hear an intersex character get tortured and raped*

The first thing Matsuda is acutely aware of when he comes to is the faint, lingering scent of something sweet and sterile on his upper lip. It’s not potent enough to do much of anything, at least, not anymore, but it rouses the same sense of panic he’d felt when the rag had initially been pressed against his face. For all the things that he could do, staying calm and composed in the threat of immediate danger was apparently  _ not _ one of them.

His mouth is dry, incredibly so. When he bites down, something rugged and coarse prevents his teeth from meeting. It’s of no surprise that he’s been gagged, given the context. But definitely a bother to be robbed of his last line of defense; his sharp tongue. 

Those icy eyes dart around the room, desperately seeking some sort of explanation for his current predicament. The venue he’s found himself in is rather odd, a tall circular hall plastered with tacky wallpaper and shoddy carpeting. The amount of furniture is scarce, only being furnished with a bed and a drawer. In the corner he spies a toilet, which officially constitutes this room as some sort of prison, or the one room apartment of a person with low standards and terrible taste.

But he knows the former is the truth, as he has been here before. 

The tackiness of the decor takes a backseat to the dread that settles in every fibre of his being, the memories of this place that come flooding back when his gaze falls to the spot on the carpet he’d nearly bled out on. Sure enough, there is proof of that- red irreversibly stained into the floor whilst the life had been draining from him. 

He has been brought back here for a reason, and that realisation is what makes him panic. Matsuda attempts to stand, to pull himself away from the chair he’s seated in and towards the elevator seemingly taunting him metres away, but it’s to no avail. The chair beneath him wobbles as he realises it’ll be coming with him if he attempts to do that, and he teeters back again.

His wrists are bound tightly to the arms of the chair, attached by coarse rope. An explanation for the burning sensation on his skin and the aching feeling in his back, reminiscent of the soreness he would feel after studying at his desk late into the night. 

“Shit.” The curse to himself is muffled by the gag, but it’s not as though anybody else needed to hear it anyway. He glances around the room again, seeking an alternate solution to his newfound problem.

If there is any solution to be found though, he doesn’t find it- instead, his gaze settles on the figure hunched over in the corner and it hits him then that he isn’t alone. He must have missed them on his first pass, and really he can’t blame himself, because Kamukura has always been good at blending into backgrounds. Going unnoticed when it benefitted him, a shadow, deathly silent as he shifted, but those piercing red eyes tell Matsuda all that he needs to know about his captor. 

“That took an unreasonable amount of time.” Kamukura speaks in a soft tone, quiet enough that Matsuda has to lean into it, but loud enough that his words are understood. “I have been waiting, but you don’t need to be told that.”

He slowly uncurls himself from the position, hair cascading down over his shoulders like spilled ink as he straightens his back. It’s ridiculous how intimidating he looks at a distance, how Matsuda feels his grip tighten against the arms of the chair. Within a few months the untalented bastard who had been sat on the edge of a hospital bed with no escape had managed to switch their positions, putting him where he was now.

“It’s quite remarkable that you survived,” Kamukura murmurs as he moves to stand fully, and Matsuda flinches at the sudden shift in height difference- or at being prompted to remember his near death experience again, he isn’t quite sure. “Tell me, how did you do it?”

Of course, Kamukura  _ knows _ . Kamukura could likely recount the sequence of events that Matsuda had taken to save himself from succumbing to death in a puddle of his own blood without having been present.    
“You are a doctor,” he observes as he continues to advance on Matsuda, closing the distance between them. “Therefore it’s entirely probable. Perhaps you were spared, the stab wound just millimetres away from puncturing your lung. And then, you limped to your lab, cowering away in hiding as you stitched yourself back together.”

He stops at the foot of the chair, glowering down at the other boy. “You found yourself lucky, you had the chance to get away, and you hesitated. It’s a wonder she didn’t come back and finish you off herself. It’s as though she refused you mercy, a sadist that refuses to put down such a pathetically wounded animal.”

Matsuda snarls up at him, unable to verbalise any sort of insult to alleviate the pain of his mocking. He struggles against the bonds as Kamukura leans closer, securing his chin in his hand. His touch is cold, impersonal, violating.

“You could have fled.” The words are harsh on Kamukura’s tongue. “And you chose to stay.”

His teeth bite harder into the fabric that gags him, as though he has a personal vendetta against it for silencing him. Kamukura’s touch is inescapable, nails dragging lightly over Matsuda’s skin as his head is tilted up, eyes forced to lock with one another.

“Surely you’re not so presumptuous to believe you can escape death a second time.”

His hold is released, but Matsuda stays frozen in place. He’s sure it’s fear that compels him, and yet he doesn’t flinch as Kamukura’s fingers brush against his cheeks. The cold digits gently graze his bottom lip, and he opens his mouth obediently, allowing Kamukura to loosen the gag from between his teeth. Despite the temptation to bite those fingers, to make him hurt, Matsuda resists, all in the name of having his freedom returned to him.

The cloth is damp, leaving trails of drool as it’s pulled from his mouth. A strand of saliva breaks off in the air, falling on Kamukura’s hand. He seems unbothered by this, merely dropping the makeshift gag to the floor as he carefully watches for Matsuda’s next move.

Clearing his throat, Matsuda tests his jaw before wetting his tongue. He then spits an ineloquent “Fuck you.” at the other boy.

“To be expected.” Kamukura brings his hand forward, wiping off the stray saliva on the creased fabric of Matsuda’s shirt before continuing. “Even after being confronted with your own mortality, you haven’t changed much.”

It’s almost as if, in his next action, Kamukura moves slowly on purpose. Giving Matsuda time to catch up with the terror that jolts him, heart leaping into his chest when he realises where things are going- Kamukura reaching out past his shoulder, pressing two fingertips against the back of the chair to send it wobbling, careening into the floor.   
Eyes widening, sucking in a breath, the impact as he topples over sends a sharp burst of pain through his body, his skull rebounding off the floor with a dull thud. It’s more shock than anything, but the simple action sends his heart rate skyrocketing, and the urge to flee seizes him, not for the first time.

“Oi!” He manages to shout when the air returns to him, but the waver in his voice betrays any sort of intimidation he might have. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?!”

Kamukura’s resounding silence is deafening, his sullen eyes staring down at Matsuda as though he were something to be pitied. He steps around him, making his way past his line of sight. The back of the chair lifts slightly, and Matsuda cranes his neck up, attempting to see what Kamukura is up to.

He gets no chance to see, however, as the chair is yanked harshly backwards, Matsuda pulled along with it. He breathes in a sharp gasp, nails digging into the hard wood of the chair as he’s dragged across the room unceremoniously. It feels like forever before he’s brought to a grinding halt, chair being dropped back to the floor like a ragdoll.

A groan escapes him, the ache in his head growing more intense as Kamukura steps back into his line of sight. The respite is brief though, and the wind gets knocked from Matsuda’s lungs again as Kamukura drives his heel into the curve of Matsuda’s ribcage.   
It elicits a pained gasp, teeth biting harshly into his bottom lip as he tries to choke back his agony. He can feel his eyes sting with tears as he shifts, attempting to relieve some of the pressure tearing into the wound on his abdomen.

“Hurts, doesn’t it?”

The cocky tilt of Kamukura’s head sends a bout of anger burning through Matsuda’s chest. He opens his mouth in an attempt to spit another insult, only to have the heel ground in further, silencing any formulated speech and replacing it with a cry of anguish.

A warm, throbbing sensation spreads through his abdomen, wet liquid making his shirt stick to his skin. The stitches have split from the pressure, reopening the wound and bringing him a fresh new hell to deal with.    
Refusing to let Kamukura witness the tears building in his eyes, Matsuda tilts his head down, obscuring his face beneath his dark hair.

“Answer the question, Matsuda Yasuke.”

Matsuda clenches his hands into fists, nails digging into the palms of his hands. “Bite me.”

His voice wavers more than he would like it to, and he knows Kamukura has picked up on it. Of course, he’s been under the eyes of an Ultimate Analysis talent for years, there’s no way Kamukura wouldn’t know just how much physical distress he was going through. 

For some reason, God knows what, Kamukura seems content with that answer. He relents, lifting his foot and removing it from Matsuda’s body, apathetic to the sheer amount of relief he has granted the other boy in doing so. Matsuda tips his head back with a sigh, his chest moving up and down as he draws in quick, pained breaths.

Of course, Kamukura isn’t done with him. Kamukura never seems to be done with anything, rarely satisfied, unfulfilled. So it is no surprise to Matsuda when he begins to fiddle with the restraints, deftly untying the knots with his skilled fingers. The second they fall slack, Matsuda pulls his hand back, planting it firmly down on his wound.

“Your first instinct isn’t to fight off your aggressor, but to rather protect yourself.” Kamukura remarks, busying himself with the other wrist. “How predictable of you, you never do seem to learn from your mistakes.”

Too preoccupied with his new concern, Matsuda doesn’t even bother to spit back an insult. He pushes harder into the gash, desperately attempting to staunch the bleeding, gasping at the pain of his fingers digging into the irritated flesh.

When his second hand is released, instead of applying more pressure to the bleeding, he grabs hold of Kamukura’s wrist. A clear defiance against the other's earlier comment, but a predictable move nonetheless. His grip is easily shaken off, Kamukura then leaning down to secure his hands firmly around Matsuda’s narrow waist.

“Oi oi what the fuck are you--!” 

Matsuda sucks in a sharp breath as he is lifted from the chair, Kamukura’s thumb being pressed harshly into the stab wound. Effortlessly, he’s tossed onto the neighbouring bed, letting out a sound of surprise as his back hits the mattress. 

In an instant, Kamukura climbs on top of him, staring down at Matsuda’s panicked face with those piercing eyes. “It should be clear to you by now, surely.”

Slowly, Matsuda blinks, confused and lightheaded. It’s as though there’s some joke Kamukura’s in on with himself that he thinks should be obvious to everyone else. Like there aren’t a million, horrible possibilities about where this could go.   
To clarify his intentions, Kamukura presses a splayed hand against Matsuda’s chest, forcing him to lie back against the bed. 

“You’re kidding me.” He mumbles breathlessly to himself, staring up at the seemingly endless ceiling. “You have to be fucking kidding me.”

“I am not.” Kamukura’s fingers thread into the knot of his tie, pulling it loose with one easy tug. 

It’s tossed to the floor, joined shortly by the blazer from Kamukura’s shoulders, finally working to undo the buttons on the article of clothing restricting Matsuda’s upper half. The buttons are undone one at a time, an agonising pace, until Kamukura finally opens the fabric up, inviting Matsuda to lift himself up and slip his arms from the sleeves, before tugging it out from behind his back.

Kamukura hands out the offending fabric wordlessly to Matsuda, who grabs it, pressing it down frantically with both hands to the still bleeding wound. His face screws up in concern with how quickly the fabric manages to become sodden and stained with red.   
  
“The less you fight me, the less you risk bleeding out,” Kamukura comments, reminding Matsuda as though he isn’t already well aware, breaths coming sharp and painful as he panics. “It is to your benefit to comply. If you do, I’ll resuture your wound. Unless, of course, you’d prefer to leave it up to fate.”

Clearly he intends to have his way regardless. Kamukura doesn’t wait for an answer, swiftly moving to undo the fastenings of his belt. The waistband of his pants is pushed down halfway, stretched across the swell of his thighs before Matsuda even has time to blink. Still reeling, trying to process the full weight of the situation he’s found himself in. 

It’s a stark contrast from the agonising pace Kamukura had adopted when removing his shirt. When Matsuda’s pants are tugged off disgracefully, the fabric pooling on the floor as Kamukura carelessly discards them, another nauseating wave of panic hits him and he has to reign in the urge to scramble backward on the bed. For as messed up as it is, he knows Kamukura is  _ right _ , and he doesn’t want to risk losing any more blood than necessary.

He opts to instead bite his tongue, gripping harder at the fabric in his hands. It's a disgusting sight he cannot bear to watch, and yet he continues to keep his eyes focused on Kamukura's every move. The way those long pale fingers hook around the waistband of his boxers, tugging them down in haste and exposing him so easily. He's well too familiar with how easy it is to spark panic in somebody, to traumatise them beyond saving. An image of Murasame's reddened face screaming in horror flashes in his mind, and he swears to himself that he will keep it together. 

Kamukura’s eyes trail down over his frame, settling at his crotch. Embarrassment only feels so much more intense when Kamukura continues to make no comment, causing Matsuda’s cheeks to burn hot. It is unlike him to not comment on unusual things, so when Kamukura simply continues to stare at his pussy, Matsuda finds himself bewildered. 

Those red eyes finally seem to tear themselves away, fixating on Matsuda’s pained expression. It feels like he’s being eaten alive, Kamukura slowly attempting to pick him apart and wear down one touch at a time. 

“So, what will it be, Matsuda Yasuke?”   
  
Matsuda eyes the hand Kamukura stretches out in front of him, palm turned upward, clearly waiting for him to concede. Gritting his teeth, he swallows thickly, fingers sinking even further into the fabric of the shirt he has pressed flush against the wound. He doesn’t want to give it up. With nothing to staunch the bleeding, nothing to protect his dignity, relenting it means he has let Kamukura win. But staring up into that expectant face, Matsuda knows he has no other choice.

With shaking hands, he garners the strength to pull the cloth away. The bleeding has at least slowed, he can tell that much, but it still dribbles from the wound as the pressure is relieved. The cold air stings at the exposed flesh, causing Matsuda to gasp softly as he reaches up to hand the shirt over. He swallows down his reluctance as Kamukura secures it in his hand, taking the shirt from him before discarding it on the floor with the rest of his clothes.

It’s not like it was doing much at this point, anyway. Considering how much blood has soaked into it.

Pale digits ghost over Matsuda’s skin, gently touching his stomach before dancing their way up to his torn stitches, wound open and vulnerable. It’s practically throbbing, blood racing under his skin to make up for the loss, to regenerate as quickly as possible.   
Kamukura examines the handiwork with a careful hand, barely teasing the surgical thread. The touch is painless, caring. A misleading lie.

Those skinny fingers curl into the flesh of the gash, prying it open with the sensation of stabbing him with a hot iron. Blood begins to spill furiously as more stitches are ripped open to accommodate Kamukura's fingers. Matsuda keens in agony, nails digging harshly into Kamukura's shoulder. 

"You…! Y-You-- Fuck!" His screaming falters, his voice cracking under the pressure. "Stop it! Get your fucking f-fingers out of there!!" 

Nausea burns intensely in Matsuda's throat, threatening to spill over at any moment. He attempts to swallow it back for fear of further infecting his wound or invoking Kamukura's wrath. His brain reels, overstimulated from the pain as darkness eats at the corner of his vision, threatening to drag him under at any moment. 

Kamukura appears unconcerned by his distress, bringing his left hand to Matsuda's pale neck. He secures it in a tight grip, squeezing the other boy's throat until a weak gasp escapes him. Icy blue eyes stare up at him, wide in shock and a light spray of tears coating his long lashes. 

When he pushes his fingers in further, Matsuda's scream is strangled. He lets go of Kamukura's back, attempting to wedge his fingers between the gap of his neck and Kamukura's hand. His other hand grips at his wrist in a deathly tight hold, silently begging for Kamukura to stop. 

Blood pours from the wound, gushing over his pale skin and dripping down his hips before soaking into the sheets beneath him. Some of it pools in the bones of his pelvis, much to Kamukura's intrigue. 

He relents, pulling his fingers from the wound, only to cause more blood to spurt out with his removal. Matsuda unclenches his teeth, jaw relaxing as a grotesque shade of pink flushes his face. He releases his shaky hold on his Kamukura's wrist, applying a weak pressure to the injury as he continues to gasp and gurgle breathlessly. 

It’s a pathetic thing. To cling to a life he so deeply despises. Grasping desperately at it, like sand running through his fingers, refusing to lay down and die when that route would probably entail so much less suffering. He supposes stubborn has always described him well. Or perhaps it’s just  _ human,  _ not to want to give in. Selfish. 

Looking up into the vengeful face of his creation is more than enough to remind Matsuda of his selfishness. To be beneath his own monster, it's hand secured tightly around his neck like a noose, a death sentence. 

He wonders if he would deserve it, after all he's done. 

Before that thought can consume him, Kamukura releases his hold, allowing Matsuda to breathe deeply. He chokes on the burning dryness of his lungs, coughing and wheezing as Kamukura watches his sad struggle to stay alive. 

"You deserve worse than a painless death." The words drawl over Kamukura's lips, a harsh insult with none of the bite behind it. Perhaps it hurts more, when it's spoken like that. 

The colour slowly returns to Matsuda's face as his chest heaves up and down. The tingling sensation in his fingers slowly departs, eyes refocusing on the bastard in front of him. 

Dipping his head down, Kamukura’s gaze bores into Matsuda, ensuring that he’s watching in what is most certainly abject horror as his tongue darts out, dipping into the pool of blood that has gathered at the curve of his hip. He pauses, almost as if considering the taste of the sharp tang on his palate, then drags his tongue across the skin in a line. The sensation of it elicits a shudder from the boy under him, enraptured by some sick fascination with the way the crimson spreads over Kamukura’s cupid’s bow, unable to look away. 

That feeling only strikes him twofold when Kamukura lifts his head, making a show of swallowing it, blood he hadn't managed to capture in his mouth now smeared across his chin in streaks. 

“Fuck,” Matsuda breathes, pitchy and very telling of the amount of pain he’s in. There's a repulsive mixture of disgust and arousal stirring inside him at the sight- the life force that’s meant to be flowing through his veins but is instead decorating Kamukura’s lips. 

Kamukura makes a show of cleaning his face, wiping the blood from his chin with the palm of his hand as though he hadn't been the one to put it there in the first place. He drags his index and middle fingers over the stained spot of red on Matsuda's hip, painting his skin with whatever blood he hadn't lapped up previously. 

The digits carefully trace down over his pubic bone, before ghosting over the folds of his pussy. Matsuda's breath hitches at the touch, unfamiliar and violating, but he holds back any further complaints as the fingers press into him. The blood helps it side in with relative ease, relieving Matsuda of any possible pain. 

With slow movements, Kamukura draws his fingers out, before pushing them back in. A gentle moan escapes Matsuda's lips as his body relaxes, being soothed by Kamukura's precise touch. With his thumb, he rubs his clit in slow circles; winding Matsuda up as though he were some kind of toy. 

"Intriguing. Just a minute ago you were begging for me to take my fingers out." He pushes them in harshly, angling them upwards towards a spot that wrings a breathless gasp from Matsuda. "And now you're practically begging me to put them back in."

Matsuda hisses lowly, squeezing his eyes shut tightly as he feels his face flush from humiliation. "Sh-Shut up, asshole. That's--  _ ah-!  _ That's not comparable…"

Lowering his guard again, Matsuda reaches up, allowing his arms to wrap loosely around Kamukura's neck. When he opens his eyes again, Kamukura's crimson gaze is locked on his, fixated on his expression as he moves his fingers in an almost calculated manner. He's been slowly building a faster pace as Matsuda has gotten wetter, glistening folds audibly squishing with each flick of his wrist. 

Matsuda attempts to muscle through the urge to squirm, to make his pleasure known to the other boy. His attempts are in vain, however, because within seconds he finds himself grinding his hips forward, attempting to get more friction even though every movement hurts him even more. Each roll of his hips burning through his abdomen, each too-deep breath clawing at his gut.

He was such an idiot to play into this, but Matsuda knew he always had been a fool. Just a puppet allowing Enoshima to pull at his strings in his desperate attempt to keep some control over his life. To have something to care about and love, he would die only caring about Enoshima, he would die having only ever loved her. 

And then Hinata Hajime uprooted all of that. 

"Fuck!" 

Leaning his head forward, Matsuda presses his forehead against Kamukura's. He can feel the way his hair drags over his skin, how it drapes over the hidden scars on his cranium, Matsuda simply can't resist the urge to thread his fingers into the ebony strands. He tugs harshly, pulling Kamukura's head back before crashing against his lips. 

It's sloppy and desperate, just like every kiss they've shared before; when Matsuda's feelings have hit their peak and overflowed in a tangle of violent passion. Whether his hands were wrapped around Kamukura's neck, or pulling harshly at Hinata's tie, it has always been the same. His teeth scraping the other's top lip, a tongue laving across the soft flesh of his own, before descending into a raunchy makeout that leaves both of them bruised and bloodied. 

The metallic taste of his own blood is the first thing that catches Matsuda's attention, and if he weren't so used to it by now, he probably would have retched. Instead, he pushes further, biting at Kamukura's lips as he reciprocates his motions, pulling his hair when he needs to gasp for air. 

"I hate you." Matsuda mumbles against his lips, feeling a tension beginning to tighten in his lower abdomen. "I hate you so fucking much."

And as expected, Kamukura ceases his movements just before Matsuda can be pulled over the edge, denying him of any relief. Matsuda yanks his hair and whines pitifully, breath hitching as the pleasure building slowly dissipates. Kamukura pushes hard against his chest to force his back down against the mattress, pulling his hands from his hair. 

"Sadistic cunt!" Exasperated, Matsuda spits the insult. 

Kamukura merely blinks, unamused. "Desperate bastard."

Taking deep breaths, Matsuda attempts to calm himself down again. With every rise and fall of his chest, he feels himself slipping further and further from reality. Eyes dance across the ceiling, unfocused, exhausted. Yet he knows his pain hasn't even begun. 

He glances back towards the other boy, who has taken advantage of Matsuda's delirium and since straddled his waist. Kamukura looks more powerful up there than he would like to admit, glaring down with that dull expression, constantly plotting his next move. Bringing a hand to his mouth, Kamukura spits into his palm in a manner that can almost be described as 'elegant', bloodied drool dripping over his bottom lip before landing into his cupped hand. 

He brings his hand down to his dick, standing tall and erect with all the excitement. Precome dribbles from the tip and the head is flushed a brilliant red, to the point of almost looking painful. A low sigh leaves Kamukura's lips as he strokes himself slowly, slicking himself up using only his own bodily fluids. Blood smears across his skin,  _ Matsuda's  _ blood. 

Matsuda  _ hates  _ how that makes him shudder with an urgent desire to rub his thighs together. "You're disgusting."

Kamukura glances up slightly, ceasing the movement of his hand. He speaks no words, and yet his expression raises the issue: Is he truly stupid enough to still be denying that he wants this? Twisting insults that should obviously be turned inward to be used against Kamukura? Matsuda refuses to answer, averting his gaze from the sight. 

"You cannot bring yourself to give up on Enoshima." It's a strange choice of conversation with your victim, yet it's what Kamukura chooses to state. "You understand that she is a burden on your wellbeing, on your entire existence, and yet you won't give up."

Kamukura shuffles a little closer, rubbing the head of his cock up against the other's pussy. Matsuda watches closely, almost curious. "I don't have a choice. I still love her."

"Love is your master, for he masters you; And he that is so yokèd by a fool methinks, should not be chronicled for wise." 

Blinking slowly, Matsuda attempts to process the words, the English he's barely familiar with. "Are you calling me an idiot?"

There's a slight nod of Kamukura's head, and that's enough to make Matsuda snort. "I can't believe you're raping me and you're still trying to preach to me." 

Kamukura rolls his hips forwards, sliding his dick between the slick folds. A soft sigh escapes his lips, the rutting clearly taking some of that tension off. It feels  _ good _ , which only adds to Matsuda's frustration. It's not that he wants Kamukura's cock pushing into him much too forcefully, it's that the torture keeps ripping at his mind, and the blood loss has left him feeling increasingly light-headed. 

"I am not attempting to preach to you. It is pathetic to see an intelligent man such as yourself willing to throw everything away for a woman such as herself." Eyes lidding, Kamukura presses the heel of his palm down against the pubic bone, pushing the skin back and further exposing his clit. "Anyone who’s been taken in by a fool shouldn’t be considered very wise himself." 

A low growl rumbles in Matsuda's throat. "Stop fucking playing with it, it's not a toy. Just get this over with already."

"You never did like being teased." Whispering to himself, Kamukura rolls his hips again. "The sensation is pleasant. I could do this all day, even if it is boring."

Again, Matsuda groans in frustration. Though, it feels more like a cover up for the desperate need to whine, to beg Kamukura to put it in so this torture can end and he can fix his sutures and get the fuck out of this dizzying room. 

His wish is granted, fortunately, as Kamukura pulls his hips back before pressing his thumb against the head of his cock. When he pushes his hips forward again, he forces it into the hole, making Matsuda's thighs clench and knees raise as he whimpers quietly. 

"This is what impatience gets you. I am larger than two fingers, and yet you choose to act like a brat and get yourself hurt. You would be useless without someone to guide you."

Matsuda tosses his head back, breathing laboured with pain. "Why the  _ fuck  _ do you keep acting like I wanted this?" 

"Because at some point, you did. You've always longed for this, Yasuke." Drawing his hips back, Kamukura thrusts forward harshly. "Loving sex with a partner who can keep up with you, challenge you. Someone who understands you more deeply than anybody else."

The dots are slowly beginning to connect. A strange scenario like this, a slow work up and punishment. The taunting. Kamukura being the perpetrator of such an act. It was as though it were planned and calculated to specifically hurt him, to dig clawed acrylics into his trauma and expose the bleeding flesh. 

“Did she put you up to this?” Matsuda finds himself asking, though he’s afraid he already knows the answer.

Kamukura confirms it for him with a “correct,” a helpless, pathetic laugh bubbling up out of Matsuda as Kamukura thrusts into him again. “Or perhaps it is more accurate to call it a suggestion. Though in any case, I’m sure you didn’t need me to tell you that.”

Kamukura's hands hook beneath his knees, pushing them up so as to give him a better angle. Matsuda lies back, giving in despite the burning pain of himself being stretched and fucked too forcefully. His wound stings, and a flush of pain claws over his entire abdomen every time Kamukura pushes back in. 

There's no point in fighting anymore. Of course Junko wasn't going to let him die peacefully, tearing his heart apart until the bitter end. Needlessly attempting to fill him with despair. It hurts in a way that leaves him breathlessly heaving and gasping, hands uselessly gripping at the sheets. 

His heart seems to grow heavy, like the weight of lead in his chest. Matsuda blinks, gazing up at Kamukura with lidded eyes. 

His face is flushed, ebony strands of hair sticking to his forehead and neck. Sweat rolls over his clavicle and there is still the faintest smudge of blood on his chin. It wrings a deranged little giggle from the boy beneath him. 

"I should have killed you a long time ago." Voice hoarse, Matsuda chokes out the words.

Kamukura's response is subtle. His grip on Matsuda's knees tightens, and his pace quickens over so slightly. His breaths come more quickly, desperate. It's a good look on the Ultimate Hope.

When his legs are pushed further forward, Matsuda cries out in agony. Being forced to contort his body only causes more pain to ripple through his guts. Kamukura moans softly, suddenly dropping Matsuda's left knee to instead use his hand to push against the wound and squeeze his hip steady. 

The scream rings in Matsuda's own ears as darkness eats at the corner of his vision. His gaze becomes blurry with tears, no longer able to see what expression Kamukura is making. He can only judge by the increase in panting that Kamukura is taking  _ great  _ pleasure from this. 

Though it only made sense. Every muscle in his scrawny little body was contracting from the sheer pain, still desperately attempting to get away. 

" _ Yasuke _ ." Kamukura moans, his pace refusing to falter even as he buries his face in the other's shoulder. 

His breath is hot on Matsuda's skin. Kamukura's hair tickles along his torso as he tears into him, drowning Matsuda in a sea of overwhelming sensations. His body feels as though it is aflame, a swirling torrent of pain, desire, and despair. 

And with a broken little cry, Kamukura thrusts his hips forward, filling Matsuda with an indescribable warmth. It's an almost pleasant sensation, one that Matsuda wants to cling to so desperately. 

But his hands are useless. His brain is useless. He can feel as his body gives in, falling weak beneath Kamukura's touch. And that sense of dizziness sends him spiralling into a darkness he's becoming increasingly familiar with. 

* * *

Matsuda's head aches something wretched. 

That's the first thing he finds himself aware of as his eyes blearily roll forward, how much his head is fucking screaming. Trying to open his eyes feels like the physical equivalent of opening a crypt.

He knew doing stupid shit late into the night would leave him feeling like garbage, and yet he still continued to do it. He curses at his past self silently, groaning as he attempts to roll onto his side. A shooting pain blossoming through his torso stops him dead in his tracks. 

And suddenly, he remembers where he had been. 

To his fault, he instantly pulls himself up, inspecting the room he has found himself in. It's cold, and the walls are painted a soft green. A machine ticks away nearby, infusing some sort of liquid. In the distance he hears the sound of people yelling, hordes chanting for the change of a system they so willingly contributed to. 

And a sigh of relief escapes him. He's in his laboratory, safe. 

He glances to his left. Beside his bed there is an infusion pump connected to an IV pole, a blood bag dangling from one of the hooks. A line is connected to his elbow, needle firmly embedded beneath the skin and secured with medical tape. 

Unfortunately, the mystery of that has to wait, as there are two glaring issues biting at his nerves. A pain and tightness in his lower side, and an uncomfortably sticky sensation between his legs. Somehow, the latter concerns him more. 

Tossing the sheets off himself, Matsuda brings his knees up. Every muscle in his body resists the movement, but his curiosity forces him to push. He brings a hand between his legs, running two fingers over the stickiness. A thick white fluid is left on his fingertips, making Matsuda scowl in disgust. 

"Fucking pervert." 

He simply wipes his hand on the sheets, caring little for their well-being. Considering the circumstances, they were probably going to need cleaning anyway. 

With a sigh, Matsuda lifts himself from the mattress, only to once again find himself ailed by pain. His memory is patchy at best, slight confusion due to hypovolemic shock. Even his stupid medical brain was working faster than his rational one was. 

A white long sleeve shirt is draped around his shoulders, but Matsuda can instantly tell it is not his own. A dress shirt made of cheap, thin cotton; much too see-through for Matsuda's liking. He lifts the left side, gazing down over his torso, the source of his pain. 

And just as Kamukura had promised, his wound has been sewn up. 

His fingers carefully glide over the stitches, neat and precise, significantly better than any of Matsuda's handiwork. Especially the botched job he had done in a despair filled frenzy in his lab…

Just the memory of the bloody scene is enough to make Matsuda shiver. Or perhaps that were from the sensation of something less-than pleasant dripping down his thigh. 

"You bastard…" He mutters under his breath. "You're just like her, absolutely  _ love _ leaving your mark on what you believe to be yours."

As much as he would love to rip out the stitches and redo them himself, he leaves them be. It would be a waste of time, and the sound of voices grows louder with every passing minute. 

He's not sure just how much he's missed, keeping a low profile after Enoshima's attempt to murder him in cold blood. But he has no doubts that she had instantly jumped back on the horse, continued with her plans to destroy Hope's Peak from the inside out.

The blood bag is half empty, and something tells Matsuda he doesn't want to still be within the walls of Hope's Peak Academy when it finally runs out. 

Running at this point hardly seemed like an option. It would mean abandoning his research, abandoning his childhood friend, abandoning the Kamukura Project once and for all. 

He curses to himself, he should have abandoned that long ago. The image of Kamukura's flushed face flashes in his mind, getting off on Matsuda's pain and suffering. What a fucked up person he had become, tainted by Matsuda's hand and exploited by Enoshima's. 

It's stupid how much his own actions anger him. 

He switches the blood pump off. Grabbing a cotton bud from a nearby counter, he applies pressure to the nook of his elbow, and swiftly yanks the cannula out from beneath it. 

Really, he needs this blood. His body will struggle to produce enough to make up for what he has lost, leaving him weak. He needs it so badly but hanging around will likely be the death of him. 

He looks at the blood bag mournfully. If he stays, Enoshima will kill him. If he leaves, he loses his purpose. He abandons his life's work, powerful knowledge that could fall into the hands of anybody. 

But really, did it mean anything in the end? 

Tossing the line to the floor, Matsuda returns to the cupboards. He gathers wound dressings, a bottle of alcohol, bandages, anything that would likely serve of convenience to him, help him hold himself together whilst he sought an actual answer to the stupid burning question Enoshima Junko had left him with. 

Could she have done it? Was a single girl the cause of his mother's illness? Had all of his efforts been wasted trying to cure something that was never even there? 

A bitter laugh rattles his chest, causing him to choke. He's not sure what would be worse: knowing, or not knowing. 

Well, there's one thing he can say for certain. Enoshima's plans may have begun with him, but they won't be ending there; he  _ has _ to get out of here. 

He refuses to bear witness to what is yet to come. 

**Author's Note:**

> Will I ever write a fic where Matsuda cums? Probably not.  
> You can find me at the usual places, feel free to harass me anytime.  
> https://igirisuhito.tumblr.com  
> https://twitter.com/igirisuhito


End file.
